


Vampire Steve

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Mission Fics [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: He has an unfair advantage, of course, but that’s what happens when you’re as old as he is.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Mission Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599379
Comments: 28
Kudos: 295





	Vampire Steve

**Author's Note:**

> **Written for MomNicole, see end notes for more info**

He has an unfair advantage, of course, but that’s what happens when you’re as old as he is. Humans are fragile, especially to something like him, and he’s heard plenty of creatures make terrible sounds when they’re injured or threatened, one or two he’s had to silence himself. But these are easy, quiet. He’s been after them a while - no family to speak of, no friends who wouldn’t turn on a dime for the right incentive. They’re not good men, not by far.

They won’t be missed.

The first, he snatches upward from his perch on the fire escape. Something vile’s coursing through that one, a smell that rises off him like a physical thing and twists its way into the air, and it’s far from appetizing. His neck snaps like dead wood and barely makes a sound with it - it’s certainly not enough to alert his partner. But the partner?

He’s young in a way - most people in the city are, and the others are easy to avoid - and he’s unwashed, but his blood’s mostly clean. There’s Dutch courage in it, but that won’t have any effect, hasn’t for centuries. But he’s unlucky - the first, the sullied one, goes easy. A sack of potatoes that drops in an instant, but Steve swings his body over the rail and drops in silence to the wet, cracked concrete of the alleyway below. Alleys are home to creatures like him, but even his speed doesn’t make him fast enough.

Before he can collar the guy, haul him backwards by his jacket and sink his teeth in, the guy’s made his move and his target, the hapless kid two muggers thought to make a victim, is staring right at them. The mugger _and_ Steve. Which is not conducive to Steve’s plan.

“A’right,” he guy says, backhanding the kid whose wide eyes betray his fear, and Steve tries not to roll his eyes but it’s been a long, long time, and these creeps are still using the same lines. “Hand over your-”

“ ’Scuse me,” Steve says to the kid, the way he might say it to break up a heated discussion, or reach between two people for a napkin in a restaurant.

Then he hauls the guy backwards into the alley by the back of his jacket, as he meant to do before, and swings him around.

“Hey, whaddya-!” the guy yells.

As last words go, they’re not great, but Steve sinks his teeth in and drinks fast, follows him down so it looks like a struggle, moves the guy around as he slips into death so that it looks like there’s a fight to be won.

 _“Holy shit!”_ the kid is saying, and Steve’s going to stop him coming closer but, by the time Steve looks around at him, the kid’s lowering his hand. “You knock him out?”

Steve gets up, makes sure to move the guy’s jacket collar just a little to cover the stain. 

“He’s down,” he says, avoiding the answer. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” the kid says, and then he nods. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m,” he touches a hand to his mouth - it comes away bloody, Steve can smell that it’s going to before he even sees. “Oh.”

“Bad?” he asks, finding his handkerchief in his inside pocket.

“It’s nothin’,” the kid says. “It’ll heal.”

“No, here,” he says, stepping up, wiping at the kid’s lip before he then hands the kerchief over. “Apply pressure.” 

“What are you, a cop?” the kid asks, doing as he’s told.

Steve smiles a little, tight-lipped because the tang of blood is still in his mouth and he can smell what’s fresh on the kid, so his teeth think their job isn’t done. 

“Concerned citizen,” he says, which is true enough. 

The kid nods, and then stares at him. Here it comes.

“I’m Bucky,” he says. 

Steve blinks at him. People don’t usually do that. People usually take one look at him and instinct kicks in. They back off without knowing why, they make their excuses even though they’re usually so polite. 

“Uh,” Steve says. “I’m…Steve?” 

Bucky laughs - he’s got a sweet, quiet little laugh and a nice mouth to make it. His skin’s pale - this is a guy who doesn’t like the sun - and smooth. Steve can see his pulse fluttering at his neck. _Down, boy._ This is also a guy who likes big guys doing him favors, if the look on his face is anything to go by.

“You just hang around in alleys waitin’ for bad guys?” Bucky says.

Steve lost the ability to tell how old someone was when he got to about ninety-seven. He got it back at about a hundred and twenty just because it was a useful skill that he needed, so he practiced. Bucky’s about twenty-five. His hair is messy at the back, his skin soft in places. There’s a warmth about him that doesn’t come from soap or cologne, and a fabric that smells like cotton under the fabrics that smell like his clothes. Eyelids drooping, shoulders hunched, this is someone who’s already been in bed tonight.

“I was just passin’,” Steve answers, “couldn’t sleep,” and Bucky brightens a little.

“Me either,” he says. “Wanna get a drink?”

Steve’s already had one. But nobody’s asked him in years, in longer than years. Everybody runs, nobody’s ever stood and smiled.

“Sure,” he says. “Why not?”

~

There are, of course, any number of places open. It’s New York. But Steve can pick up on things that others might miss - the smell of fear, the rapid heartbeat of someone who wants to leave, the agitated breathing of somebody who’s looking for an out. Bucky has _none of those things._ Bucky has warmth and interest and a different kind of speed in his skin and his eyes and the beat of his heart, and he walks close to Steve, looking up at him when he thinks Steve can’t see.

“I don’t know about the diners around here,” Steve says eventually, after maybe the fifth time the kid looks at him like he’s hungry, and he lifts his head as he squares his shoulders, because the mirror thing is a myth and he’s had five hundred years to learn about the golden ratio, “but I’ve got a coffee maker.”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Sounds good,” he says, holding Steve’s gaze.

~

Steve lives near the water in DUMBO. He tried Tribeca in the nineteen-seventies, but he remembers Red Hook fondly from his time here in the nineteen-forties. This side of the bridge was always kinder. 

He takes them inside - the landlord invited him in years ago for the viewing thinking him overly-polite, so the whole place is open to him - and Bucky walks straight in behind him. Steve puts his keys on the kitchen table and turns around to look at him.

Neither of them even look at the coffee machine.

“Nice place,” Bucky says without looking around at the place either, and Steve walks back to him, slowly, step by step, watching him. 

It’s lucky for Bucky that Steve’s got morals, otherwise this would be akin to a free sample it’s been so easy. He steps right up to him, curls his fingers around the lapel of Bucky’s jacket. 

“Let’s get you out of those wet clothes,” he says - it hasn’t rained for hours, Bucky’s jacket is bone dry.

“Mmm,” Bucky nods, staring up at him. “Might catch my death otherwise.”

They come together fast and hard, teeth clicking. Steve can still taste blood and he wills his canines not to sharpen, grabbing for the kid’s head instead. He can regulate his strength, the kid’ll be fine, but he tastes young and clean, he feels hot to Steve’s excessive coolness, and he makes such pretty sounds when Steve follows the column of his throat with his tongue, pulse beating strong just beneath the skin. Steve can almost taste it.

They fumble together for a long few moments, shifting towards the bedroom until Steve nearly backs up straight through the kitchen table, and that’s when he decides tripping over each other is a waste of time. He picks Bucky up instead. 

They undress themselves once Steve dumps him on the bed - trying to undress each other would just mean they get in each others’ way - and then they crash back together, grasping hands and open mouths.

“Condoms,” Bucky says, and Steve doesn’t have them, doesn’t need them but can’t exactly explain- “in my jeans,” and yeah, fuck yeah, great. “ ‘M clean,” Bucky says, “fucked myself in the shower before I left.”

“Thought you’d be gettin’ some?” Steve says, finds the condoms, gives one to Bucky and tears the other open for himself.

“Tryin’ to wear myself out,” Bucky answers, and Steve shakes his head - if Bucky wants wearing out, he’s come to the right place.

“Lemme get that for you,” Steve growls.

~

Maybe it’s weird that it’s somebody else’s blood in his dick but honestly, who cares at this point? Bucky is very receptive, as things turn out, and Steve hasn’t gotten laid in so long, too long. Eating as often as he does doesn’t usually leave much time left for it, after all.

 _“Fuck_ that’s good,” Bucky says over the sound of the bedsprings creaking, and Steve turns his head to kiss one of Bucky’s ankles - both are up on Steve’s shoulders but the one on his right is a little closer. 

Bucky’s right - it is good, it’s way better than good, and Steve tightens his grip on Bucky’s thighs as he drives in harder, mouth open, gasping for air the way his body still does automatically even though there’s no need any more.

And everything’s going really, really well, Bucky’s making sweet little sounds, his body’s clutching at Steve, his head’s back and he’s smiling wide and he’s taking what Steve gives him, but then Bucky lifts his chin to ask for a kiss. He’s right-handed, and that meant there was no problem when they were dressed, no problem when they undressed, but now it means that Bucky’s right hand’s the one stroking his dick when Steve leans down for that kiss. So that puts his left - and apparently the goddamn silver ring on his left pinkie - on Steve. More accurately, across Steve’s shoulder and up Steve’s throat to the back of his neck before he registers it, and then pain blossoms outward like a brand - he rears back with a hiss, skin sizzling in a score mark in the wake of it, just as Bucky is about to kiss him. 

Which puts Bucky about six inches from his fangs as they spear downward of their own volition. He nearly bites his own lip.

“HOLY _SHIT!”_ Bucky yelps, flailing sideways as Steve is reeling.

The result is a highly uncomfortable and very rapid disengagement, followed by Bucky jamming himself up against the headboard while Steve teeters off the foot of the bed.

“Fuck,” he he hisses, voluntarily this time, although the hand he’s got on the back of his neck isn’t helping. There’s no blood when he looks, but he can feel the blisters. _“Fuck,_ ow!” 

“Holy _shit,”_ Bucky says, really hard on the ‘sh’ as he breathes hard. 

_Now_ there’s fear.

“Fuck,” Steve says again, dropping his hand, and then he looks at Bucky, sighing as he hangs his head.

Great. 

“Please tell me that’s an allergy,” Bucky says, fast and high-pitched, and Steve winces, tilts his head to one side. 

“In a manner of speaking,” he says. 

Bucky shakes his head.

“You can’t exist,” Bucky says, and Steve rearranges himself to sit on the mattress proper. “You don’t exist!”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m an illusion.”

Bucky looks around the room, crunches himself up into a young, naked ball.

“Are you gonna eat me?” he says.

“No,” Steve answers. “Even if I hadn’t eaten already tonight, I only eat the kind of people nobody’s gonna miss.”

Bucky frowns, head coming up a little.

“Homeless?” he says, and there’s actual disapproval in his expression.

Steve really likes him.

“Criminals,” he corrects. “Bad ones. Those two tonight went after a seventy-five year old yesterday. I couldn’t get ‘em, it was just before dawn but…She’s gonna need surgery. It don’t look good.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. 

“Listen, leave if you wanna leave,” Steve says when the silence has stretched long enough. “It’s-” he glances at the clock “-gettin’ on for five so I won’t be able to see you out, I’m afraid.”

Bucky looks at the windows, covered by thick blackout curtains. The sun’ll be almost ready to rise behind them. Then he looks at Steve.

“Garlic?”

“Love garlic,” Steve answers with a shrug.

“Mirrors?” 

“I shave every morning in one.”

“But silver though?” and Steve nods, resists the urge to put his hand on the back of his neck again - it’ll only hurt more. 

“Yeah. Crosses are fine if I don’t touch ‘em but, uh, ix-nay on the oly-water-hay, et cetera. Stakes are bad, too. And,” he points to the curtain. “Sunlight.”

Bucky frowns at him, wets his lips.

“You,” he says, and he glances aside for a moment before he looks at Steve again, “got any Neosporin?”

Steve nods slowly.

“Yeah?” he says. 

Bucky gets up, unfolding himself from the head of the bed to strip off his condom.

“Bathroom?” he says, pointing.

“Uh,” Steve answers. “Yeah, cupboard over the…sink. What?”

“So you fight crime,” Bucky says, touching one hand to Steve’s uninjured shoulder as he passes, “I’m an EMT,” and then he leans down and presses his mouth to Steve’s cheekbone, and nods at the score mark when he straightens up. “Lemme get that for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in getting me to write something for you, head on over to [my tumblr!](https://justanotherstonyfan.tumblr.com)


End file.
